


at once, I knew I was not magnificent

by aeoleus



Series: The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (Can u imagine), And my one thought was If im going down im draggin u fuckers down with me, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Forgiveness, Gen, Grief/Mourning, So funny story i watched a cover of it's quiet uptown and I started bawling, it's quiet uptown, so tada
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 22:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7073626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeoleus/pseuds/aeoleus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's a grief that will not speak, that cannot speak." </p><p>Alexander has a headache. His son is dead, his (pregnant) wife hates him, and he has a headache. </p><p>But Eliza has more grace than Alexander could ever hope to aspire to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at once, I knew I was not magnificent

_There's a grief that can't be spoken._

_There's a pain  goes on and on._  

* * *

 

His eyes were hurting.  
Alexander could feel a headache, straining behind his skull, aching to break free. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It did nothing but add a dimension of blur to his vision troubles.  
"You're getting up there, Pops," rushed unbidden from his brain. His son. His son, who had roared with delight the first time Alexander had come home in glasses, all youthful freckles and untamed curls to Alexander's lined eyes and graying hair.

* * *

 

Bed, he guessed.  
Not really a bed. A couch. With a blanket.  
Alexander didn't bother getting undressed. Just removed his jacket, kicked off his shoes, and pushed his hair out of his face.  
He blew out the candle, pulled the blanket over himself, and lay in utter darkness.

The funeral was today.  
It was sunny.  
Alexander guessed that was god's (or whoever it was. He didn't particular want to tempt the wrath of the Whatever from high atop the Thing) way of trying to be ironic. A sweltering November funeral for a boy who hadn't yet begun to live.  

Sweat had clung to his neck, had soaked his black collar. Young Angelica had stood by him, holding tightly to his hand, as tears ran down her face. She had lost weight. Her dress hung off her.  
Eliza had stood next to him, staring resolutely forward. Eyes bloodshot, one child on hand, one in grave, and another in womb. Refusing to acknowledge her husband.

Closed casket.  
Alexander had run his hand over the mahogany wood, willing to run his fingers, just one last time, through those curls his wife loved to fuss over. To give his son just more hug. To look him in his dark eyes (so like his mother's) and tell him, "Don't shoot, Philip. Don't get shot. Don't do anything. Stay home with me, Philip, and stay safe. Damn my honor."  
Of course, what had he said? What cursed words had left his wretched mouth?  
"Be smart. Take my guns. Make me proud, son."

* * *

 

His pillow was soaked. Alexander flipped it over, and tried to quiet his breathing. If any of the children heard him...

The door to his study creaked open, a soft light spilled across the carpet. Alex didn't dare move. He stayed, curled to the wall, equal parts afraid and ashamed to face whoever cared enough about him to come in.  
The floorboards creaked, the couch dipped. Someone curled around him.  
He tried to slow his gasps, tried to stem the floods from his eyes. A small hand slipped around his waist, and she nocked her chin atop his shoulder. Tears dripped onto his face.  
Eliza.  
He reached for her hand.  
She didn't pull away.  
He grasped it. Tightly.  
It was a small eternity they lay there. The darkness grew around them.  
Alexander shifted to his side and faced his wife. Her swollen eyes were half closed. Tear tracks marred her cheeks. He held her face, and thumbed away the tear that escaped her eyes.

"I'm so sorry." He whispered. His voice cracked, and he winced. He had written 90,000 word essays in two weeks, he could spontaneously orate for hours on end. He had the entire arsenal of the English language at his disposal, and the only words he could bring to his command were "I'm so sorry"? How _insignificant_ , how insensitive, how _inadequate_. He had rained hellfire down on this woman, had cleaved her heart in two, and the only gifts he could lay at her deserving feet were "I'm so sorry"? Why couldn't-

"I forgive you." She whispered back. She reached up and she kissed his forhead. Drops of water that were clinging to her lashes transfered to his skin. The storm quieted momentarily. A yellow sky in a hurricane of grief and regret. A transient calm.

His headache was gone.

 


End file.
